


Feel Again

by michaelphelps



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Bar fights, Blood, Ending a Relationship, Isolation, Lots of Crying, M/M, Mention of abuse, Mentions of Violence, drunk, eliza and alex and angie and Others are implied to be there but not mentioned, mentions of domestic violence, space and stars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-12 21:19:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12968640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michaelphelps/pseuds/michaelphelps
Summary: John looks down at his hands and fights the urge to crack his bruised, sore knuckles. The wind whipped around him and his ponytail was falling apart, but he tried not to pay attention, letting the strands obstruct his vision momentarily.





	Feel Again

John looks down at his hands and fights the urge to crack his bruised, sore knuckles. The wind whipped around him and his ponytail was falling apart, but he tried not to pay attention, letting the strands obstruct his vision momentarily. He pretended not to hear the bustling coming from inside the house, decided the porch was the best place to be.

There was a little bit of blood on his collar, his own this time, that no one seemed interested in helping him wash out. It'll stain but he has other shirts.

He stares down at his palms and turns his hands over several times. He wishes he could cut them off, toss them into the garbage can that's waiting to be picked up in the morning. They looked disgusting. Dirtied. Bloodied. Bruised. He'd done a number in the bar, then came home with his friends while they tried to talk him down, only to do a number on-

Did he really do this? It was a cruel trick to play on someone. Get them close to you only to hurt them in a savage way. Savage. Ugly. Dirty.

He took a deep breath and looked into the sky. There were hardly any clouds and the moon shone brightly on his face. The stars were beautiful, letting him forget what happened inside and remember the time he wanted to be an astronomer. Before he knew what he was capable of. He loved the stars, the moon, the asteroids, the planets and the moons that followed them, the galaxy, other galaxies, all the galaxies. He was enraptured by the endlessness and seeming non-permanence of space.

He looked into the sky and selfishly wished a black hole would swallow him up before he had to deal with the consequences.

The door opened behind him but he didn't bother looking away. He heard footsteps and felt someone sit next to him. He let himself look back down at his own hands when a dark one covered them.

"You either leave or you go back in. There is no gray area, not right now. Not ever."

The voice was harsh. Not like he'd expected anything different. But he didn't react immediately, too numb to register the threat hidden in the words.

He couldn't think of anything to say. Wanted to apologize but knew it wouldn't be enough, couldn't be enough. He shouldn't be forgiven and he won't be, not for a long time, if ever.

When he didn't return the gaze, or supply a verbal answer, the voice scoffed and the warmth at his side and pressure on his hands lifted. He could hear the footsteps growing softer before the door opened. There was a sob coming from inside. He'd broken someone's nose. Not someone, a friend, a _good friend_ , a lover, a-

The door closed with a tone that mirrored the voice.

He should go inside and apologize, help with damage control and ask for help. If no one would offer emotional help, his knuckles needed cleaning and he knew at least one person inside that wouldn't let his shirt stain.

He focused on the stars one more time, thinking about how great it'd be to go there one day. Maybe he'll go back to school and become an astronaut. He already had a degree in a chemical sciences and could-

He was picking at his fingers and barely registered the moment he broke skin, only when he felt the blood drip down the back of his hand. He quickly licked at it, sucking the finger into his mouth for the initial bleeding to stop, if he'd gotten himself hard enough it shouldn't start again until he was inside.

There was a goal. Get inside. Fix your wound. No one can yell at you for that.

He stood from the top stair, letting out a large breath and pushing down all of his thoughts, wanted to go inside a mere carcass of what he'd come outside as. But that's pretty morbid. He'll go in human, try to ask the nicest one for help and if she supplies he can make it through the night. If not, he leaves and doesn't speak until spoken to.

John turns and walks to the door, pausing right outside and gripping the handle tightly, mentally preparing himself for whatever he's about to walk into.

He turns the handle and pushes, the subtle hum of conversation dies out, like someone flipped a switch. He takes a couple steps and turns to the living room, not surprised to see everyone else looking back at him. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, apologize, ask for help, tell them something, anything. But he felt like a gaping fish and shut it when he noticed the blank stares he received.

He can take care of himself, he's grown.

He faces forward and makes a beeline for the bathroom, shutting and locking the door as soon as he can.

He turns on the water and puts his hands under the tap, sees that the blood from his finger stopped where he left it. His knuckles are dirty, with what, he has no idea. He takes a pump of soap, some citrus cucumber infusion with moisturizer. One of his knuckles is completely split open and it _kills_ , he winces and holds back a whimper, realizing it's the first thing he's felt since he left to go to the bar. He likes it.

It's disgusting but it's therapeutic. His knuckles sting as he cleans them off, the dirt and grime giving way to flesh and bone, he starts to feel real again.

And the weight of what happened is on him.

He remembers everything so clearly he's having a hard time believing he tried to suppress it. Coming back to his friends house fired up about some racist comment a guy said as he left the bar, a hand on his waist and kind words in his ear. He thought he'd calmed down in the car on the way over, but one word and he was on someone in a second, wanting the rush he'd strived for when he beat a guy to shreds.

It didn't come when he was immediately pushed to the ground, loud yelling but he couldn't make out the words. He stood up and someone shoved him out the door, standing with him for a second before going back inside, leaving him to his thoughts and the cool air.

He'd sobered up considerably and didn't even notice he was crying until he looked in the mirror and saw bloodshot eyes and wide tear tracks down his cheek. He has a couple bruises of his own, he saw. One high on his cheek and the opposite eyebrow was bleeding. He doesn't want to sound vain but he may have a scar there and his perfect eyebrows will be ruined.

There's a knock on the door and the handle twists. He's not ready to see anyone, doesn't want anyone to see him like this. John's breath is coming in short for the first time in a long time and he grabs the handle, stops it from turning, and unlocks it, swinging open the door so hard he nearly hits himself and simultaneously tears it off the hinges.

The door shuts behind her and he's sitting on the closed toilet lid, head on her stomach and a soft hand running through his hair.

He doesn't deserve this, any of this, to be let back inside, to be given the option that he could even come back inside. To be coddled by a woman who's nature it was to care for people and who should be helping someone who really needs it. Helping someone who's boyfriend just-

She lets go and sighs, taking his head in her hands and letting a thumb press to his eyebrow, making him hiss and recoil. She's merciless, goes back in to examine it before a damp cloth is on it, soaking up blood and cooling the headache that was blooming behind his eyes. She's too good for him.

"Come out in no less than five minutes," She tells him. "We want to talk before you have to leave."

The door shuts quietly and someone in the living room gives a shout, sending the room into a tizzy before it's silent again.

He gathers himself in the mirror. Keeps the cloth but tries to wash away the tears and make himself look the slightest bit presentable.

He walks into the living room with the cloth to his face and his free hand tucked under his elbow, hiding the array of injury. No one says anything so he just stands there. He isn't quite sure what to say himself, so he doesn't.

He's not necessarily part of the conversation but he's being given instruction, so he listens. He listens as he's told to stay away. Go back to the hole he crawled out of- _Don't say that_. Don't speak until spoken to, like he'd suspected.

His relationship is promptly terminated. Confirmed by someone who isn't even in it but the look in his lovers eyes is enough to say he agrees.

It's been going on for too long. He's too old.

Is he? Twenty-three isn't old. Newly twenty-three is even younger. His birthday was a week ago.

He's too reckless.

Savage. Ugly. Dirty. Not used but implied, it's always implied.

He walks out of the house with nothing. Yes, he's still got the cloth pressed to his eyebrow but it's cold and it's the only thing he can feel right now. The uber back to his apartment is quiet despite the volume of the music his driver's playing. He only says 'thank you' and leaves the car, buzzes himself into the building and walks up six flights to his apartment room.

He wants to be sad but he takes a shower on cold, stands under it and let's himself pretend he's not crying.

He wants to text someone. Anyone, about anything. Then he remembers he was told to stay away, from all of them. Everyone who cared about him was in the room when he threw the punch, and then again when he was exiled.

He doesn't know where he stands and he doesn't know what to do. Going to bed alone for the first time in a long time felt completely wrong. He stayed up for too long. Called his boss at three thirty and told him he was sick, not coming in. Not even his boss cared about that, he's replaceable. Replaceable.

He wakes up and throws up onto the floor next to him. He cleans it up in record time before crawling back under the covers. His knuckles are sore and his face aches and brain _hurts_ as he sobs into his pillow, lets himself let go of the weeks build up of emotions.

He wants to call someone. Tell them he needs help. Can't be alone inside his head but he knows no one will come to him. Knows no one will care.

It's closing in on three pm when someone comes into his apartment. He's still lying in bed. It's dark under the covers and that's good for his head. He can't really breath but he's decided he's fine with that.

The bedroom door opens and he hears a sigh, followed by more footsteps. He doesn't move, wants them to think he's sleeping.

Drawers open and close and so does the closet before they leave. Before one leaves. John feels the covers lift and a finger strokes his cheek before they leave, too.

He doesn't cry again and instead thinks about the how the stars and moon were so pretty the night before. How if he had a time machine he'd change everything. But he doesn't. And he can't. So he settles for the stars and the moon and the asteroids and the planets that have their own moons and waits for the days to grow shorter with the seasons. Waits until he can feel again.

**Author's Note:**

> so this is my first published fic and I’m actually really proud of it so kudos are always welcome but comments are SOO appreciated!!
> 
> you can come yell at me on tumblr  
> @originalbboysneakerhead (or just come say hi!)
> 
> thank you for reading!


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